


Idle

by scienceofrebellion



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Amnesiac!John, Angst, Backstory, Betrayal, Drug Use, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Memory Loss, Military, Pain, Post Reichenbach, Psychological Trauma, Self Harm, Sherene, Suicide, Triggers, War, Work In Progress, mormor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-16 16:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scienceofrebellion/pseuds/scienceofrebellion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John attempts suicide, but survives with retrograde amnesia, and Sherlock decides the best way to keep him safe is to pretend as though they never met. Molly ends up doing one last favor for Sherlock. Mycroft seems to know Sherlock better than he knows himself. May be triggering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sleep

Idle.

He watched as a moth flew around the fluorescent lights on the ceiling.

Sherlock didn't move. He had no reason to. He was very good at being still if he wanted to.

Well. He didn't really want to. But he had to. He knew he had to. This was his fault.

He had decided to stop watching John. It wasn't pleasant, the feeling he got every time John 's eyelids would flutter or his lips would twitch, only to realize that he still wouldn't wake up. False hope.

It seems like hospitals were full of it.

A comatose state, from Sherlock's somewhat limited knowledge of medicine, can last from six hours at minimum to several days to entire decades. So far it had been five days and, as Sherlock checked his phone for perhaps the fiftieth time that hour, nine hours. And still John was unconscious, not responsive to stimuli, pupils not reactive to light, completely still and entirely idle.

As idle as Sherlock, who had waited for five days, grateful for Mycroft's involvement considering visiting hours, and who will continue to wait.

Upon later reflection, Sherlock had realized, he really should have seen this. Only now did he think that there really could not have been any other result, that this is the only thing that could have happened. This or any variation of this. He had been so careful with everything else, so prepared like he always was, and the plan had went perfectly. Sherlock Holmes never makes mistakes.

But he had never anticipated that John would be so affected.

How could he have? He had never been that close to anyone, ever. He knew that John was different, of course, he knew that he cared about John, would do anything for John, but he had never thought that it could also have been the other way around. He never thought that he would meet someone that could not live without him.

And the day that John Watson decided he could not live without Sherlock was the same day that Sherlock Holmes felt a rare emotion he could not place, one that made his heart leap to his throat and his stomach sink and his entire world begin to collapse, all of which faded away into relief when Sherlock was notified that John was not dead.

Not dead. Not dead, the most beautiful phrase he had ever heard, Sherlock thought wryly.

He had been thankful that that John had not attempted suicide with a gun, at least. That would have been completely irrevocable, and the result would have been Sherlock visiting the morgue instead of the hospital. No, John chose a more sentimental way. Hardly unpredictable.

Yes, hardly unpredictable. That was what Mycroft had said.

"He had attempted to jump off the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital." Even on the phone, Mycroft's voice was calm and smooth, the kind of voice you would expect from a person who made a living from manipulating others. Someone who knew how to use words as both a weapon and a shield. "Hardly unpredictable. I'm surprised you didn't see it coming."

And at that, Sherlock's fingers clenched the phone even tighter.

"It's alright." Sometimes it seemed as though Mycroft could read minds. "He's not dead."

And Sherlock let out a breath he did not know he was holding. He did not care that Mycroft could hear him, hear the one sound that proved that Sherlock Holmes was scared, not just scared, but scared for someone else, scared of losing someone. As if he had feelings. A preposterous thought.

John wasn't dead. He was in a coma. Was that any better?

Yes, of course it is. There is always the chance he will wake up. That his eyes would finally open, his pupils would constrict in the bright hospital lights, that he would feebly turn and see Sherlock and everything that needed to be said would finally be unlocked. And afterwards, everything could go back to normal. Everything that Sherlock had been missing for so long, everything that Sherlock never had any time to appreciate. From hacking into John's laptop to trying to deduce his feelings from his footsteps on the stairs, from playing Cluedo to making fun of each other's blogs, or even just when they would spend hours together and not say anything. And it felt perfectly alright.

It'd been three years. Sherlock was too used to being alone. And even though it was stupid, Sherlock knew somehow that a silence with someone else is not as quiet as a silence alone.

He shifted in his chair slightly, the first movement he had made in a while. Other than the bed, the hospital room was furnished with a bedside table and only one chair, which was made of scratchy material and was now occupied by Sherlock. The lights were bright and clinical, and made the comically hideous wallpaper easier to see.

Sherlock stood up and immediately felt a wave of nausea. He could feel aching underneath his eyes, where he was sure there must be dark shadows. When was the last time he had slept?

H e couldn't remember, which was informative enough.

His limbs ached as well. It suddenly occurred to him that he might have been in shock. It all felt like a daze. The past week had been strung together through foggy memories. The phone call from Mycroft, being snuck into the hospital, staying in John's room and refusing to leave. So many refusals, he remembered. He had refused to eat the food the nurses brought him, refused to sleep when they arrived with extra blankets. Refused to leave when Mycroft himself asked.

Sherlock shook his head, as if it would be enough to clear it. Maybe he was in shock. There is a first time for everything.

He looked at his fingers. They were trembling.

He balled his hands into fists and paced around the room. He hadn't noticed how cold it was until now. He automatically turned to John, lying in the bed. He was fine. He had blankets and pillows. He was comfortable.

That was enough for Sherlock.

He walked over to the bed. Sherlock's head was swimming. He really needed some sleep. Sleep or stimulants. Sherlock opted for the second one. He'd get some coffee later, he supposed. But he didn't want to leave John yet.

It felt as though if he left the room, if Sherlock took his eyes off John for one second, then he would slip away forever. It was like trying to grasp water in his hands, trying to keep the droplets from falling through his fingers. It was only until now that Sherlock could see how easy it was for everything to change in one moment, and how earth shattering it felt.

And Sherlock felt guilty for making John feel that way. For driving him to the point that death seemed like the best option.

But he didn't know if he was ever going to admit it.

Sherlock looked down at John's face. There was nothing there. None of the anger or sadness he had felt when he jumped. No happiness, no excitement, no amusement, none of the things that Sherlock loved seeing on him, none of the things that made John John.

John looked peaceful. Which was enough for Sherlock.

He collapsed into the chair and closed his eyes, sleeping willingly for the first time in a long time.


	2. Offensichtlich

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [durramansdonkey](http://www.fanfiction.net/u/1766966/durramansdonkey) for correcting the use of German in this chapter.

He dreamt in German.

He had heard once that you aren't really fluent in a language until you've dreamt in it.

It sounded like a myth, but Sherlock knew better.

His dreams were vivid and intricate, swirling with English and German and a little bit of French, with numbers and formulas and smells and sensations and problems. It was his unconscious come to life, on the rare occasion that he let it...the rare occasion that he slept and let his mind succumb to the limits of his body.

Sherlock found the dreams interesting but irrelevant.

He was not self aware. He thought of everything, the how and the why and the where and the who, but he never thought of the meaning of the how and the why and the where and the who. He never thought of himself, never thought of the meaning of his dreams, of what they meant about him.

No, that would be sentiment.

And sentiment is interesting, but irrelevant.

Rache. Rache, revenge. Rache, revenge, revanche. Rachel.

What?

Oh. Rachel. That was from the case with the pink lady. Of course. Obviously.

Obviously. Offensichtlich. Évidemment.

Ugly words. No, ridiculous. Words can't be ugly. Words are sounds and symbols strategically placed to express an idea or a concept. There are no aesthetics with words. "Offensichtlich" and "èvidemment" and "obviously" are all the same. Just different sounds and letters.

John's sitting on a train, a quiet train, his head in his hands. He's sleeping. He's wearing the coat, the black coat. Why is he wearing it? Where did he get it? Shouldn't it be spotted with blood?

The train is quiet.

Look at all the dead people, where do they all come from? No, that's not the lyric. John knows, probably. The Beatles.

_Look at all the lonely people, where do they all come from?_

And where do they all go?

Tod. Sterben. Todesfall. Ende. Vernichtung.

Death, death, death, death, death.

Sherlock looks out the window at the end of the train. Sees the world racing past. He calculates the speed they are traveling, the force of the mechanism in the wheels, the age of the train and the strength of the tracks. He estimates the time it would take to arrive at their destination.

He does not think about the beautiful full moon, does not think about the way the evening sky is brushed here and there with pink from the setting sun and blue from the fading light and black from the emerging night. He does not think about it because it has not occurred to him to think about it. He has lived so long without sentiment, that it barely exists in his mind.

Sentiment is interesting but irrelevant.

Moriarty. The anglicized form of the Irish name Muicheartaigh.

He's here, too. Dead, like the others. Was he lonely when he died? No, he wasn't. He wasn't alone on that rooftop. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Besides, it is sentiment and therefore irrelevant.

Moriarty is dead. Muicheartaigh is dead.

Jim. Jim's dead.

How awfully normal and insignificant that sounds. Did you hear?  _Jim's dead. Put a gun in his mouth, shot himself on the rooftop. Yeah, really. Yeah, yeah, that Jim. The Irish bloke with the funny name, what was it...right, Moriarty, it was. Can you believe it? Suicide. Country's going to the dogs, I tell ya. Too many dead people. Too many lonely people, but I s'pose that's the same thing._

John was running, running to him, the great black coat dragging on the ground behind him, too long for his height. His feet making noises in the quiet train, the silence shattered. Look at all the dead people, where do they all come from? They came from lonely people, of course. Where did the lonely people come from?

Dead people, offensichtlich. Death causes loneliness, loneliness causes death. It's an endless cycle. It can only be broken when the dead start to rise.

Dead people, holding John back. Dead people, rising. The train is quiet. Dead people, pushed aside. John is almost there. John is running. John is close, he is going to put his hand on my shoulder and turn me around and yell at me for playing dead for three years, and I'll take my coat back because it really doesn't suit you anyway, John.

"Sherlock?"

Yes?

"Sherlock."

What, what is it?

"Sherlock, wake up."

His eyes open.

His head clears and the dream fades quickly and Sherlock is glad.

Interesting but irrelevant.

He looks up and sees Molly Hooper and the circles underneath her eyes and the wetness on her hand and the bit of tissue stuck underneath her fingernails and it is enough that he can see the tears, too, even though they had already been cried and already been wiped away.

_My fault._

And he knows before she even says it. But he listens anyway, and his heart races anyway, and for once there is nothing uninteresting or irrelevant about anything.

"He's awake now, Sherlock."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references a short fic I wrote [here](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8078961/1/Train-of-Silence).


	3. Salt and Urea

When had he been moved? He wasn't in John's hospital room anymore.

He stood up and a wave of dizziness washed over him. He felt unsteady on his feet, and his head and eyes ached. No matter, he had just woken up from his first nap in what may possibly be weeks, which was hardly something he hadn't already experienced. None of his bodily reactions are surprising. Of course not, they're obdurate. Consistent. The way the human body reacts to sleep deprivation, or anything at all, is something that never changes. What a comforting thought.

Hardly unpredictable, Mycroft had said.

Then again, John had usually been there to warn him when Sherlock had pushed his physical limits too far. His voice, a comforting sound in the background of Sherlock's much louder, crisper thoughts. _You have to eat something, Sherlock, for god's sake. And when was the last time you slept? Come on, turn out the light, go to bed. It's bad for your health. Are you listening to me, Sherlock?_

Of course I'm listening. I always listen. I never show it.

_I'm not your doctor, Sherlock. I'm just your friend._

Oh, really? The banker case. I was introducing you to Sebastian. My friend, I said. Colleague, you said. You thought I forgot? No, of course not, you were the one who forgot. It was a trivial moment, something easily forgotten by most people. Obviously, I'm not most people.

I never forget anything.

_Please, Sherlock._

I don't have friends.

He swayed slightly and grabbed Molly for support. She jumped. "Sorry," he muttered. He would just walk it off. He would walk everything off. The guilt, the fear, the sadness. He would walk and walk and walk until every wrong he'd ever committed would be right and until everything that he could lose in a second would become obdurate. Consistent. Never changing. And only then could everything make sense again, only then will Sherlock once again be able to trust the evidence of his brain over the evidence of his heart.

_I'll burn the heart out of you._

And it's a good thing you did, it was worthless anyway. What's the use of a heart that can't love anything but can still get hurt? Can still broken?

Or maybe that is love. Perhaps it's as simple as that. Perhaps everyone has cracks in their heart. The more broken, the more love.

Stupid. Stupid ideas.

Sherlock glanced around quickly. "Why am I in the morgue?"

Molly opened her mouth to answer, and then closed it again. "Are you...are you alright?"

He sighed and narrowed his eyes. "Yes, yes, yes, I'm perfectly fine," he snapped. "Now tell me why I was moved here, and more importantly, where John is."

Her eyes flickered over Sherlock's face. She saw a lot. She saw lots of things, on people's faces, in their eyes. Things that she never spoke about and they never spoke about. Things like sadness and guilt and shame and remorse. Things like love, or the lack thereof. And so she swallowed and smiled at Sherlock. Because it was the least she could do for a broken man.

"Your brother came by-"

"Obviously. The water on the floor was tracked by his shoes. Raining outside, isn't it?"

She looked down nervously. "He had you moved here because he wanted someone to keep an eye on you."

That someone being you.

Of course, he didn't have to say it out loud.

"Well." Sherlock nodded brusquely. "You've done a fine job." He spun on his heel and began walking quickly towards the exit, remembering the way to John's hospital room.

"Er, hold on, wait!"

He ignored her.

"Sherlock, wait, you can't see him now!" She grabbed his arm.

He stopped and turned, surprised. There was fear on her face. He could see nothing more. Emotions were not his concern, except for exploitation.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "And why can't I?"

"He's..." Molly swallowed. "He's not...normal. I mean..." she stuttered helplessly and sighed. Sherlock saw her wipe her eyes.

How silly tears can be. How interesting, the amount of value that is attached to a few glistening drops of water, salt and urea.

Interesting, but irrelevant.

"Explain, Molly," he said, an impatient edge to his voice.

She closed her mouth and looked up at him with the saddest eyes. She knew she couldn't say anything else, and she knew Mycroft had told her not to let him see John, but she didn't care. Sherlock would not listen, and that was alright. Because he was a broken man and Molly could see that and she knew that broken men could not be reasoned with and the least she could do for him would be to leave him alone, even though she didn't want to. And so she wiped the tears away from her eyes and sniffed and gave a small smile and shook her head. "Go," she whispered.

Sherlock looked at her in confusion before briskly walking out of the room, expecting her to come after him. She didn't, and this puzzled him.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice that he never listened to told him that Molly is a lot stronger than he gave her credit for.

No matter. He would proceed to John's room. And everything would be back to normal.

The bright hospital lights cast sharp shadows on Sherlock's angular face. The hallway was quiet and deserted, the only noise a faint hum in the background. He walked down it with his back straight, his stride quick, his face unfathomable, his eyes flicking about and taking in details. As usual.

He stopped in front of John's room. The door was open just a crack. He gently placed his hand on it and pushed, swinging it open quietly.

John opened his eyes.

And he squinted, his pupils constricting in the bright fluorescent lights, eyes glancing at the tall, thin figure that had just entered the room.

Sherlock looked at John, his heart racing and his throat tight.

And John looked at Sherlock, his disposition blithe and his reaction confusion.

"Er..." John blinked. "Who are you?"

And Sherlock felt himself falling from a place much, much, much higher than ever before.


	4. Blissfully Ignorant

He backed out of the room and slammed the door shut.

It was silent. In the hallway and in John's hospital room. It was a cold and maddening silence, the kind that expected something from you. The kind that waited calmly and patiently for the turmoil in your head to subside just enough for you to realize exactly how bad things are and how worse they can get if you are stupid or selfish enough to let it.

And Sherlock was not stupid, but he knew he was selfish.

He pretended, just for a moment, that slamming the door shut on his closest, best and only friend of several years, a friend who had just attempted suicide and is now in the hospital with severe injuries as a direct result of Sherlock's actions, was not, in fact, an utterly stupid thing to do.

This facade lasted a solid two seconds before crumbling.

He then realized that he was both stupid and selfish. Because the man who cannot read is not as stupid as the man who cannot love. And the man who sympathizes with himself is not as selfish as the man who has no sympathy at all.

Sherlock never liked philosophy.

_Who are you?_

How could a simple three word question be enough to make, Sherlock Holmes, the most inhuman of humans, slide to the floor with his head in his hands?

_You were the best man, the most human...human being I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a..._

Lie? Oh, I lied. In the end, in that last phone call, I lied to you. And I lied well, John. I regret that. I regret that now.

Anybody else would be confused at that question. They would be in blissful denial. Who are you? Well, what do you mean, who am I? You know who I am!

But Sherlock was not most people. Sherlock knew. He knew immediately. And for a second he thought this was worse than death, that if John had died instead he would at least have been remembered as Sherlock's friend, as Sherlock's flatmate, the man he had shared so much with...

Not this blank piece of paper who knew nothing. Or at least, nothing that mattered.

But he thought this only for a second. Nothing, absolutely nothing, would be worse than John dying. It was inconceivable.

_Who are you?_

_I am Sherlock Holmes. I am thirty six years old. I live in London, England at 221b Baker Street. I am a consulting detective, the only one in the world._

Is that really who I am?

_I am Sherlock Holmes. I am your flatmate. I get bored if I don't have a case, at which I point I either shoot the wall or shoot cocaine. You would prefer I do neither. I occasionally leave specimens in the fridge, which is the bane of your existence. Most people would find me a cantankerous flatmate, but you are patient. I am a consulting detective, which means I often get myself into dangerous situations. You have saved me from said dangerous situations more than once._

_You are my only friend._

Sherlock swallowed and stood up. He stepped back into the room.

John was sitting up in bed. The extent of his injuries was now clear. He had one broken leg elevated in a sling above the bed, one arm in a cast, and a bandage wrapped around his ribs on his bare chest. But none of that compared to the injury that may not have been as visually extreme, but certainly was the worst: the bloody bandage on his head, where he had received the severe concussion that put him into a coma for days and turned him into an amnesiac.

_Retrograde amnesia. Memory loss received from a severe blow to the head, particularly one that damages the frontal lobe (cerebral cortex). May or may not be temporary._

_It is possible to regain memory from certain stimuli, although not scientifically proven._

"Back so soon?" John said, with a wry smile.

Sherlock felt a slight amount of relief. He still had his pawky sense of humor.

"I'm sorry if...if I can't remember who you are," John continued quietly, the smiled fading. "The doctor said I have amnesia..." He looked at Sherlock uncertainly. "I hope I didn't, um, startle you or anything."

"No, it's fine. Besides, my reaction may have been...unnecessarily dramatic."

John laughed. "Yeah."

There was a silence. It was one of those silences again, the ones that wait. The ones that expect.

John looked at Sherlock, really looked at him. What a strange looking man. Tall and thin and angular, all in a dark coat. He seemed imposing, almost intimidating. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, John felt completely comfortable with him. Even safe.

But there was this edge of darkness, an ever so subtle one, about his presence. As if something bad had happened that involved this man.

_So tall...so tall and excessively lean that he appeared much taller..._

Interesting thought. Familiar thought.

He could not shake the feeling that he had thought the exact same thing before, long ago. A vague an inexplicable feeling of déjà vu. Somewhere, sometime, this was his.

He knew this man and he knew him well.

If only he could _remember_.

"My..." Sherlock hesitated, his facade of emotionlessness cracking as he took a deep breath. "My name is Sherlock Holmes."

Remember? Sherlock Holmes? Thirteen letters, three syllables, plastered all over the papers and all over your mind? The name used to be everything to you, and therefore nothing. A name that was so commonplace in your life that hearing it daily meant nothing. Now you don't know what it means. Now you don't remember.

He continued, walking over to John's bedside. "I'm..." A friend? Was that really all they were? Friend, a term that could stretch from drinking buddies to soul mates...how could he possibly explain the nature of them, of us, of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson?

"I'm your flatmate."

That would do.

"Oh." John raised his chin. "Well, that's a start. It's nice to, er, know you, Mr. Holmes." He smiled.

_Oh..._

"Sherlock." He swallowed. "Just...just call me Sherlock."

Mr. Holmes? Mr. Holmes, as if he was a complete stranger, as if they had never met, as if everything they had ever been through together, every word they've ever exchanged, every moment they had ever shared, has been reduced to absolutely nothing?

_Shut up. Stop being overly sentimental. Of course he would call you Mr. Holmes; he did the first time you met. Hardly unpredictable._

"Alright. Sherlock..." He said the name slowly, letting it roll on his tongue. Strange name. It wasn't very common; in fact it sounded almost archaic.

 _Sherlock._ Familiar.

And for a second, he almost remembered everything. Almost. Just a little more effort and the connections would have been made. But it was alright, for they remained blissfully unaware of the lost chance. There are many lost chances that remain unknown, and a good thing that is, too.

He shifted in the bed a little and cringed as he felt a sting in his ribs. Sherlock shifted as well, seeing the look of pain on John's face. No one could have noticed the shift. It was well hidden. Years of practice, building up his armor, hiding his humanity where no one could find it. Almost no one.

He was quite good at pretending.

"What, er..." John hesitated. It was difficult. The situation was unique and awkward and exceedingly difficult and he was beginning to get tired of knowing nothing, of being refused answers, of pain and more pain and endless pain in his scarred and broken body; he was just so tired of _being tired_. And he didn't know what it was about this strange man that felt like the answers to all of his questions, but it was there. Whatever it was, it was there, and it was something, at least, which was such a big contrast to the big nothing that he felt, the big nothing that he could remember. He looked at Sherlock with exhausted eyes. "What...happened?" he said quietly. "Why am I in the hospital with a head injury and amnesia and multiple broken bones?" He sighed, closing his eyes, continuing. "It's just...nobody will answer me. Nobody will tell me what happened. Was it an accident? A crime or something?" He opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and grabbed Sherlock's arm. "Look, I don't know who you are. I'm sorry about that. Really, I am, because I know it's probably tough for you, talking to me when I'm not the person that you knew. But I also don't know who I am, either, and it feels like I've been asleep for what seems like a very long time, and all I remember about my life are the strange things I dreamed about, things that don't make any sense, so I need you to tell me, please." He swallowed. Sherlock stared at him breathlessly, stared at his scared, pleading eyes that had seen so much and hid so much.

"What happened to me?" John whispered.

I don't know.

What did happen to you? What made you feel so empty and so hurt inside that you thought there was no other choice, that you thought you could not go on fighting any longer, that your only path to happiness was the cessation of your own life?

_How could it have been me? Me, of all people, me, who cannot love and cannot be loved, how could it have been me? How could you have cared so much that you would die to be with me? How could you have cared for someone like me at all? No one cares for me, no one has ever cared for me. Only you. Only you, John._

The cessation of life. Sherlock understood life and death. Life is when the heart beat and the brain functioned, when oxygen continued to pass through the lungs and carbon dioxide continued to be dispelled, when the thousands of minute life processes that exist in the human body are still continuing in their seemingly infinite cycles. Death is simply the cessation of all those processes.

He did not really understand life and death.

No one does. But some people think they do, and they give their lives meaning when it was otherwise absent of one, and they are happy, and they die happy. But Sherlock did not care.

Interesting, but irrelevant.

And he looked at John, and he saw a man who had been so broken, who had been so utterly shattered inside that he could never have been saved, a man who had had absolutely no hope...but who had been given a second chance. A clean slate.

He saw a man who would be completely unaffected if the stranger known as Sherlock Holmes walked out of the room and was never seen again. He saw a man free of the world's most addictive drug: love.

A man who never had to know anything, who could live a normal, happy life.

And that was fine.

"You were in a car accident."

It was fine. Everything would be fine.

"A drunk driver, apparently. You're lucky you survived."

And what a fine lie it was. So easy, so incredibly easy to lie smoothly, convincingly, in the same monotonous, rapid tone he always used when speaking to people he didn't care about enough to make sure they understand.

And in order to save John, he must not care about him. Because caring will not help him.

"We don't know who it was. The person drove off before anyone could identify the vehicle. But at least you're alright." And he smiled.

John, blissfully ignorant, smiled back.


	5. Finality

"You are entirely willing to go through with this?"

"Yes."

"You understand that if his memory returns, he will be furious with you?"

"He has been in a comatose state for over a week and has experienced severe head trauma. I sincerely doubt it will." Cold, eloquent, easy words. Uttered nonchalantly with not a shred of emotion.

Sherlock was invincible.

"And you also have every intention," Mycroft replied, bemused, "Of leaving him and never returning?"

Sherlock raised his chin defiantly. "Yes."

Mycroft smiled.

The seventeen muscles used to stretch the corners of the mouth upwards were exercised particularly frequently by Mycroft in the form of either sarcastic, ingenuine, or smug smiles.

Over the years, Sherlock had learned to differentiate all of them.

In this case it was the latter.

This also happened to be the smile that never ceased to thoroughly annoy Sherlock.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair. "Most amusing," he remarked.

Sherlock scowled. "How?"

Mycroft looked at Sherlock and saw mum's eyes and father's curls and pure, unmitigated stubbornness.

Mycroft felt nothing, hurt nowhere, knew everything. He was not eccentric or immoral or sociopathic, he was not harsh or imperious or condescending, he was complete neutral. Just ice and nothing else. He had lived long enough to make mistakes and learn from them, and what he's learned is that to care is to get hurt. Caring is putting yourself in a position of vulnerability.

_Caring is not an advantage._

He was right. All lives end, even the lives of men who seem invincible. All hearts are broken, even the hearts that are made of ice.

_The Iceman._

Moriarty had loved nicknames. He seemed silly, flamboyant, almost childish...Mycroft did not know it would be so difficult. He had never underestimated Moriarty, of course, that would be foolish and risky. Mycroft was cautious, _always_. But he had thought he was in control when they brought Moriarty in for interrogation. He had thought _he_ was in the position of power, that he decided the outcomes, like he always did. Power play was one thing Mycroft excelled at, and he knew it.

But he had failed. He had revealed everything to Moriarty. All the information Moriarty wanted, all the facts needed to successfully smear Sherlock's reputation, all the truths big enough to wrap a lie in...he had given James Moriarty exactly what John had said: _the perfect ammunition._

Mycroft Holmes had failed. He had failed his government, his country, himself. Most of all, he had failed Sherlock.

He had never underestimated Moriarty. He had simply overestimated himself.

Mycroft tilted his head slightly and glanced over Sherlock, before smiling knowingly. He was one of the rare people that could see when Sherlock was pretending, even when Sherlock himself may not know it.

"You desire to leave Dr. Watson while he is still suffering from retrograde amnesia and never come back. Correct?"

Sherlock remained silent.

"And you are under the impression that you are actually capable of this."

"Yes," Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Oh, I haven't the slightest clue." He shrugged. " _Sentiment_ , perhaps."

Sherlock looked as though he had been slapped in the face.

Mycroft's expression changed to exasperation. "The last thing I would like to do, _dear brother_ , is pry into your affairs." He smirked, knowing full well he meant the opposite. "And the nature of your relationship with Dr. Watson is none of my concern, but I am well aware that you two are very close." He leaned forward and gave Sherlock a strong look. "And that is why, Sherlock, I am very skeptical of your ability to amass enough _self-control_ to stay away from John."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I said that I would leave John _permanently_ , and I _meant it_. I am perfectly capable of cutting off all contact with him." He pursed his lips. "It has absolutely nothing to do with sentiment. I simply do not want him to get hurt."

Mycroft smiled once more as Sherlock realized what he had just said.

"Wanting him to be safe has nothing to do with sentiment!" Sherlock snapped. He stood up from the table they had been sitting at in the hospital cafeteria. The place was deserted at the hour, save for the lone custodian slapdashedly mopping the floor.

Mycroft remained seated as Sherlock began walking away. "Sherlock. Wait."

He ignored him.

_"Sherlock."_

No response.

Mycroft gritted his teeth. "Sherlock Siger Scott Holmes, stop walking this instant!"

Sherlock stopped.

The custodian stopped too, leaning on his mop to view the spectacle.

Mycroft stood up and walked over to Sherlock. "You do understand," he spoke quietly, "that if you decide to go through with this, you _will_ get hurt."

Silence.

"John can live happily without you. But you cannot live happily without him." Mycroft's words hung in the air. "I just hope that you can at least _live_ without him."

Sherlock swallowed.

Mycroft put on his coat. "Goodbye, dear brother," he said.

Sherlock remained motionless as Mycroft left.

The words echoed. _Goodbye, dear brother._ Why did he say it like that? With such...finality. As if this was the last time they would ever speak. The last goodbye.

_I just hope you can at least live without him._

And if he can't?

Then the last goodbye would be eerily appropriate, Sherlock thought.

Sherlock continued to the cafeteria exit, walking past the custodian mopping the dirty floor with an equally dirty mop, thus making the floor wet but not actually cleaner. He sung quietly as he absentmindedly sloshed the mop across the floor, and accidentally over Sherlock's shoes. "Oh, sorry." He looked up at Sherlock and smiled, before going back to singing.

"If a double-decker bus…crashes into us…"

Sherlock tilted his head as he walked out of the cafeteria.

"To die by your side…is such a heavenly way to die-ie…"

_And if a ten ton truck kills the both of us_

_To die by your side_

_Well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine_

"There is a light that never goes out…there is a light that never goes out…"

The lyrics repeated themselves in Sherlock's head.

He ignored it. Ignored the song, ignored Mycroft's warning, ignored the inklings of emotion beginning to seep through the cracks in the walls he had spent so many years building around himself.

_They say the reason why people build walls around themselves is to find out who cares enough to knock them down._

Ridiculous. People build walls around themselves for the exact opposite. To protect themselves from people who do care. To protect themselves from things that distract them from more important matters, like cases or experiments or intellectual stimulation.

To protect themselves from pain. From betrayal.

Because caring is not an advantage, is it, Mycroft? You cared and look what you are now. The Iceman.

That's life in its simplest form: advantages and disadvantages. The people with the most advantages are the ones who win the game. But somehow, the ones who lose always seem happier. They're boring and normal and dull and happy, inexplicably happy.

What is it about love that can turn the most serious and astute of men into grinning fools?

Sherlock didn't know, but he vehemently hoped whatever it was, it's not contagious.

_Oh, I haven't the slightest clue. Sentiment, perhaps._

Sherlock's hands clenched into fists as he walked from the hospital cafeteria to the morgue.

_Sentiment. Absolutely nothing to do with sentiment. I am NOT sentimental._

He stopped at the door for a moment, hesitating.

He had been doing a lot of hesitating lately, he had noticed. It was odd. Frightening. He was so used to doing everything as fast and as spontaneous as his own thoughts, but now...he didn't know his own thoughts anymore. He wondered if that was normal.

He wondered what normal even was.

He had changed. He knew that. Sometime in the past week, sometime during the days where he didn't know whether he would ever be able to see John alive again, Sherlock Holmes had changed.

He opened the door to the morgue and stepped in. There was just one last favor he needed to ask of Molly Hooper.


	6. Roar

_Hit by shrapnel. Chest and stomach._

Do you need me for the surgery or...

_No, there'll be no surgery._

What? What do you mean?

_The shrapnel's too close to his heart._

But...you're not suggesting...

_Yes, I am. Get the morphine. Fifty milligrams should be enough._

But...

_That's an order, Officer Cadet Watson._

Yes. Yes, sir.

Twenty nine. Yes, he had been twenty nine when he had joined the army, the year after he finished medical school.

Don't stare, soldier. Don't look at the dying man, writhing on the table, blood flowing from his chest, not knowing his pain is about to end as the surgeon injects him with just enough morphine to kill a grown man and not one drop more; in war, painkillers are a luxury.

Eyes straight ahead, soldier.

Officer Cadet John Watson, assistant surgeon in the 51st Northumberland Fusiliers. Officer Cadet John Watson was safe. Officer Cadet John Watson had only been in the army for a year, fresh out of basic training. Officer Cadet John Watson had no limp, no gunshot wound, no trauma. Officer Cadet John Watson was fine, totally fine.

Officer Cadet John Watson was scared.

_But that's alright, soldier, this is war, everyone's scared. The ones who say they aren't are lying. Now stand up straight, soldier, eyes in front of you, and every time someone yells in your face, what do you say?_

_YES, SIR!_

Very good, soldier.

But that had been a different John Watson. That John Watson smiled a little more, his eyes sparkled a little more, his head a little more empty.

And all that disappeared the first time he saw a man die for no reason.

_This is war, soldier, people die. Now grow up._

Look, he's older now. See, he did grow up. Only three years older, but war makes people age fast. There are new wrinkles, a darker tan, lighter hair. A different look on his face. Colder eyes. Cold enough to freeze right through the Afghan sun. Yes, this is Captain John Watson.

You still scared, Captain? It's been a long time since you mucked about in Officer's Training, hasn't it? Is that armband getting wrinkled, Captain, that white one with the red cross, that one you're wearing right now that means you're supposed to be a saver of lives, not a killer of them?

You will always be scared, John, you know that, right? No matter how loud you roar, little lion man, you'll always be scared.

Because you are not Captain John Watson or Officer Cadet John Watson or Lieutenant John Watson. You're just John Watson, and you have been scared your entire life. Ever since the day you had to throw yourself in between your mother and your drunken father to keep him from hitting her, ever since the day you realized the worst pain in the world is not physical, ever since the day you walked into St. Bart's Medical School with wide eyes and hopelessly big dreams, ever since you stepped off the plane in Afghanistan and felt the searing hot sun hit the back of your neck, ever since you watched all your friends die around you for no reason, you have been scared. And no matter how loud you roar, lion man, you will always be scared deep inside. No matter how many lives you save, no matter how many lives you end, and no matter how many of your friends you watch die, there is absolutely nothing you can do about this.

But you can be scared and still be _brave_ , soldier.

_Keep your eyes fixed on me._

Eyes straight ahead, soldier.

_Please, will you do this for me?_

This is war, soldier, people die. Now grow up.

_This phone call...it's my note._

You will always be scared, John, you know that, right?

_That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note._

But you can be scared and still be brave, soldier.

_Goodbye, John._

No, don't... _SHERLOCK!_

Roar, lion man. This is all just a dream, anyway. But don't worry. You won't remember it when you wake up.

You won't remember anything. You're a different John Watson now.


	7. Little Miss Molly Hooper

If somebody had went back in time and informed fifteen year old Molly Hooper that she would one day pursue a career that involved the handling of dead bodies, she probably would have froze and felt the tendrils of confusion and embarrassment begin to manifest itself as she stared up at this mysterious stranger with flushing cheeks.

Such was the nature of Little Miss Molly Hooper.

Of course, as she matured, crippling social awkwardness gave away to not-so-crippling social awkwardness, which gave way to only slight nervousness and a relatively unsuccessful romantic life. But she was okay with that, sort of. She was happy. She had friends and acquaintances and a good job, working in the morgue. Caring for the dead was like an art. An art that involved scalpels, chemicals, and a Y-incision, but an art nonetheless.

And it was nice, sometimes.

Being alone, that is. Strange, too…to be around people but not life. The two are so intertwined, most of the time it's hard to tell the difference.

But people aren't life, Molly knew that. People had life. They had been entrusted with this delicate object, to do whatever they want with it. To use it, give it, love it, spend it, waste it, _cheat it_ …

Cheat life? No, the expression is "cheat death". But that doesn't make sense, does it? Death can't be cheated. Everyone dies; it's the only thing fair about the world, the only thing you can't possibly cheat. No matter who you are, you will die. Just like everyone else. Seeing dead bodies everyday makes you painfully aware of your own mortality, and Molly knew that one day she could be in here, too, a dead body on a slab, ready for autopsy, tagging and paperwork…

So, no, you can't cheat death. But cheating life…

Molly stood at the autopsy table, humming as she finished up the post mortem. She didn't notice Sherlock walking silently into the morgue.

Yes. Molly knew. If you're clever enough, then yes, you can _definitely_ cheat life.

She filled in the time of death on a toe tag and attached it to the corpse.

"Molly."

She jumped.

Sherlock walked around to the other side of the autopsy table. The corpse lay under a white sheet, its nose and eye sockets making creases in the smooth, sterile cloth.

"Natural causes?"

"Er, no…" Molly shook her head. "Suicide." She coughed. "Overdose."

There was a silence. She looked at Sherlock. He did not look at her. He stared at the corpse, his head cocked to the side, his cold eyes transfixed on the creases in the sheet, the only evidence that what lay beneath the cloth was human, had once been human.

Suicide. Latin: _suicidium_ , from the term _sui caedere_ : to kill oneself. He had always thought it ironic that switching one letter in this phrase gets you sui cadaere, which translates to:

_His fall._

Sherlock wondered what it would be like to stand in this room and look at John on the autopsy table.

_Oh, I'm so sorry, we did everything we could…wait, sir, don't go in there, you don't want to see him like this…_

He'd insist though. He would have to look. He'd push his way through.

John would be lying naked on the cold metal table, face up, arms by his side. His skin would be pale already, beginning to gray, except for his mouth, which would be closer to black. After death, the muscles that control the pupils relax. His eyes would be dilated. By now, he would be in rigor mortis. Stiff and cold. Apply enough pressure to a finger. It would probably break off. Cut him. There would be barely any blood. Corpses don't have blood pressure. He would not be John anymore. He would be a dead body. He would be decaying flesh that is already beginning to develop microorganisms, about to be buried six feet under where eventually he will fertilize the soil.

And then he wondered if John had had the same thoughts about him.

Molly opened her mouth to say something, and thought better of it. Be quiet, Molly, not now. Hadn't she done enough already?

She had never really known John all that well. On occasion, she forgot his name. But Molly had never thought it would be so difficult to keep the secret. Never. She had almost told, the first time she had seen John when he thought no one was looking.

Everyone does that, all the time. Molly is no one, no one is looking, it's safe to be sad around no one. It's safe to look hopeless and broken. John Watson was a broken man, and Molly knew what broken men looked like and what broken men need.

Sherlock had trusted her, though. Sherlock had said he needed her.

Molly would never betray him. But she had often wondered if it was really a betrayal to tell the truth to the one person in the world she knew Sherlock truly cared about.

 _No, no, no. Don't think like that, Molly._ And so she had kept the secret for three years.

And then suicide.

She had never cried over death before. People had always found that strange about Molly, ever since she was little girl. Soft-spoken and shy and sweet, but she had never cried when her cat died, never cried when her grandmother died, never even cried when her father died.

To her, death had always seemed natural.

Except for suicide.

She dealt with suicide on a daily basis. Filling out the paper work for post mortems, writing in tiny, neat handwriting the cause of death: suicide. She always felt the tiniest drops of sympathy for each person she had to write that for, until all those drops begin to turn into oceans, until those oceans sent waves that washed away any naïve hope she had been clinging to, and the thoughts of guilt and shame she had been harboring for three years increased.

And when she heard that John had committed suicide, she locked the door to the morgue and she sat on the floor and she cried silently.

Because it was her fault.

And the waves came crashing down.

But John was okay. She had heard the news and felt relief. He was okay, in a manner of speaking. Bashed up and lost his memory, but at least he's not dead.

She had stopped crying when Mycroft had had Sherlock brought to the morgue.

_"You have to look after him."_

Of course she complied. She had tried to make it look like she hadn't been crying, even though she knew Mycroft could tell, even though she knew Sherlock would be able to tell. But that was alright. Because she knew no matter how clever he was, Sherlock couldn't tell a broken woman by looking at her, and that was good, because between the two of them, Molly needed to stay strong. She had to look after him, and she could not afford to be broken. Not Little Miss Molly Hooper.

Sherlock suddenly tore his eyes away from the corpse and stood up straight, his arms folded behind his back. He turned to Molly.

"I'm leaving."

Molly looked at him, startled. "What-"

"Soon, far away from here, and permanently," he interrupted.

Molly stared at him.

She wondered what he had said to John. What he had felt like when he had probably marched smoothly into the hospital room (like he always did), and when he had probably said something clever (like he always did), only to realize that John Watson, the only person who had believed in him, the only person who had seen him for who he really was and not just for the things he had done, _the only person he had ever called a friend_ , could not even remember who Sherlock Holmes ever was.

She wondered what that felt like.

And she felt sorry for him. Which she really shouldn't, but she did, and it was very strange, because this was Sherlock, harsh, cold, intimidating, untouchable, invincible, Sherlock, and feeling sympathy for him was just...strange.

And she looked up at him and knew that she didn't want him to leave.

"Why?" she asked.

"That's not relevant." He walked closer to Molly. "I came here to ask you a favor. John needs to be cared for, and I will not be here to do it."

Sherlock lowered his gaze to Molly's eyes. The room suddenly felt colder, somehow.

"You have to look after him."

He hadn't been the first Holmes to say that.

She looked up at him with wide eyes, her fingers nervously locked together. "Er, what do you need?"

And all of a sudden she knew exactly what he was going to say next.

She didn't know how, but that didn't matter, because there was only one way to answer that question, at least for Sherlock, and he had done it before, three years ago, in a dark room with a dark look on his face, one word, one syllable, nearly a whisper, and that had been enough, more than enough for Molly to do him a favor that had caused so many people so much guilt and grief and pain, but she knew, she _knew_ that even if she had to go through this all over again she would, she always would, because this was Sherlock Holmes and she would never betray Sherlock Holmes.

And so this time Molly Hooper looked Sherlock straight in the eye, and she did not feel cold at all as he answered her question for the second time.

_"You."_


	8. 2:15 AM

He gasped and sat up abruptly in bed.

A sharp pain pierced his left arm, and he let out a cry that was cut short by his own hand clamped over his mouth. _Shut up, shut up, shut up, you'll have the nurses running in here with their morphine shots and fake worried looks._

God, everything ached.

It was worse, much, much worse than immediate, all-encompassing pain. This was a pain that throbbed stealthily beneath drugs and injections, a pain that increased slowly and slowly, deceiving you, giving you the useless, hopeful wish that maybe things really aren't so bad, that maybe if you wait long enough, maybe if you can survive long enough, everything will be as close to okay as everything could possibly be in a world like this.

And then you blink. And you feel wetness in your eyes, and tension in your throat, and aching in your chest, all of it rising from the depths of this stealthy, unceremonious pain, and you realize that the only thing keeping you from crying is consciousness.

That must be the point, John thought, where you figure out that not all of your pain is physical.

He had been crying in his sleep. Dried tears on his face, and crusty yellow powder in his eyes was proof enough of that.

He had no memory of the dream. Only that it had been important, and that was useless. Idle information.

The hospital room was dark. It was nighttime, and the only illumination came in through the window as dim moonlight. It cast long, sharp shadows, and reflected off the untouched glass of water sitting on the stand next to the bed. John moved, and bumped the stand. The water sloshed, and moonlight shimmered on its surface.

2:15 AM. Nurses working the night shift, custodians taking out the trash, med school students staying up late finishing last minute work, ambulance drivers on caffeine, and doctors stumbling into the emergency ward with shadows under their eyes and their lab coats buttoned the wrong way. The next morning, they are going to tell the family "we did everything we could", and they did, but they are still going to blame themselves, because they are doctors and that's what they do.

John closed his eyes.

_That's what I do._

Tired. So tired, so very tired of everything…

_Yes. That's what I do_

Sleep, he wanted to sleep so badly. He wanted to fade away in the darkness of the hospital wing, he wanted to see nothing but blackness and the stars barely visible above the London skyline.

But most of all, he wanted his life. And how utterly ridiculous that is, to want something you have no knowledge or memory of. To want something just because it's better than nothing. To want something just because it once belonged to you, a long time ago in some far away world, where pain and numbness was not the extent of one's feelings.

_Humerus._

Please, please, god, just let me sleep. It doesn't hurt as much when I am asleep. I don't need to think when I'm asleep.

_Humerus, radius, ulna, carpals, metacarpals, phalanges…_

John opened his eyes.

_Scapula, clavicle, ribs…_

His eyes were wide and unblinking, his lips parted, almost in a trance-like state as he grasped for these resurfacing memories desperately in the dark, whatever they are, wherever they're from. It didn't matter to him. It was something, at least, a dim light in this never ending night. That was all that mattered.

Thoracic vertebrae, cervical vertebrae, atlas, mandible…

He blinked and thought for a moment, before reaching over and gently prodding his left arm. There was a slight ache of pain.

He moved his hand higher up his forearm, and applied pressure.

John bit his lip to keep from crying out.

Ah, of course. Of course that's where the fracture is.

_The area beneath the anatomical neck of the humerus bone is referred to as the surgical neck because of its tendency to commonly get fractured, which often makes it the focus of surgeons._

He stared at the ceiling as his arm throbbed faintly.

He remembered. He remembered it, the humerus bone, he remembered the surgical neck and the anatomical neck and the tubercles, he remembered what the bone looked like, remembered seeing it in surgery, unrecognizable tools in his hand and a mask on his face, and he almost laughed, because, god, he could remember.

But this wasn't everything.

No, it wasn't even close to everything he wanted to remember. He needed more. It was too late now, he had had a small taste of memory, now he had have the rest, he had to know everything. _He had to._

There must be something, _anything_ , to help remember more…

Something to _trigger_ it.

John slowly sat up in bed. His entire body ached, the pain slowly washing over him in waves, but the sharpest pain came from his injuries. He sighed and clenched his fist as he waited for it to pass.

And then he was struck with an idea.

He paused for a moment, before removing the bed covers and looking at his body. Arm in a cast, leg in a sling, bandages on the chest. He saw crimson a faint flash of color in the darkness, and realized it was blood and pus seeping from his bandages. The pain seemed to worsen the more he focused on it, and he tore his eyes away, cringing. He didn't need to look anymore. He knew now. He knew what he had to do.

_But it wasn't enough._

He took a deep breath, reaching down and feeling his injuries, and he gritted his teeth each time to keep from crying out.

_Not. Enough._

He curled his fingers and shut his eyes tightly, grimacing. Pain throbbed throughout his body. It polluted his mind and pierced through his very being, and he breathed heavily waiting for it to stop, stop, _stop, please stop._

But it was alright. Because he had found it.

_Pain._

_Pain's the trigger, isn't it? Pain will make me remember._

John reached out his hand and groped on the bedstand.

_Of course it had to be pain._

But it wasn't enough, John knew. It wasn't enough to get his life back, it wasn't enough to make him remember everything, the pain cutting through him right now...no, it was not even close to enough.

A drunk driver.

His hand touched something cold and smooth. The water glass.

Every time he had asked a nurse or a doctor what happened, he had received sad looks and evasive answers and absolutely no explanation. But the worst part was that they had wanted to tell him. They wanted to, but they couldn't, and John could see that, he could see it in the way they looked at him, in the curve of their eyebrows, in the tilt of their chin, in the sadness of their eyes.

And every time they quickly looked away.

_As if they weren't allowed to say anything._

It had not been a drunk driver. That was a lie, an undeniable, inexcusable, unmitigated lie. And for once, _just once_ , John wanted the truth.

And the truth he would get.

In one swift movement, John smashed the water glass on the ground.

The glass shattered instantly, the shards flying across the floor, twinkling like scattered stars.

John reached down with his free arm and felt carefully, his fingers trembling in contact with the cold water. He found a large shard and grabbed it.

He held it in his hand for a moment.

_Pain is the trigger._

Light glinted off its sharp point.

_Do it._

Is it worth it? Is he mad?

2:20 AM. The moon was full, he could see it clearly through the window. The glass in his hand cast a translucent shadow on his face. It would have been beautiful. Perhaps in a different time or place or life, it would have been beautiful. But not now. Not in this pain.

_Anything would be worth it._

He placed the point of the shard on his ribs, right where his bandage was, and dragged it across his chest.

_Don't make a sound._

It rose up in his throat, a scream, growing more powerful with every second of piercing, excruciating pain, but he forced it down, forced himself to remain silent. His back arched, his hand clenched into a fist, the muscles in his jaw and in his fingers straining, but he continued.

_Tired. So, so very tired of anything and everything._

His wrist gave out and he collapsed. The glass shard, dripping with blood, lay in his palm.

_Captain John Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers._

He swallowed hard, his heart racing, his head pounding even more than before. He reluctantly picked up the shard again.

_No, no, not again. No more pain, please._

He gritted his teeth and in one swift motion, stabbed the shard deep into his arm and pulled it out again.

He screamed. A quiet scream, one that was quickly cut short, his jaw muscles straining to keep his mouth closed and his anguish hidden, but the bright, glistening red of the blood on his body was much louder than any noise he could ever make, and so he closed his eyes as his chest heaved from the pain, and he could almost pretend he had been perfectly silent, even while he his mind was screaming louder than any sound he could possibly conceive and any sound he could possibly remember.

It's worth it, he told himself.

_Doctor, doctor. The patient is dying._

_Dr. Watson, quickly, the patient is dying. He's hurting himself. He looks at the blood on his bed and his clothes and feels relief from the pain in his mind. All he wants is to remember. That's all he wants, Doctor._

Dr. Watson. Dr. Watson.

_John._

_I don't have friends. I've just got one._

_John?_

_Remember me?_

"No." He shook his head in the darkness. His voice sounded startling, raspy and pained, shattering the silence. "No."

He was bleeding a lot. His eyesight was becoming unfocused, his head foggy.

_Sherlock?_

"No, please…" He had to stay awake. He couldn't pass out, he couldn't sleep, he couldn't, he just couldn't, it would be too much. One more nightmare, one more awakening in a cold sweat…it would be too much.

He had to remember.

_"Alone is what I have, alone protects me-"_

And suddenly, John remembered.

It was not everything. It was not even close to everything, but it was enough. It took blood and pain and moonlight and tears and stupidity but it was enough, all he wanted was to remember, and he did.

The glass shard tumbled out of his hand.

He let out a breathy whisper. It would have sounded barely audible to anyone that would have been standing in the room, but it would have been enough.

He smiled weakly and closed his eyes.

_"No…"_

The whisper echoed in his head and faded as he lost consciousness. His face looked pale and porcelain in the light, his blood bright and beautiful.

"Friends protect people."


	9. Goodbyes

He had spent a long time deciding whether or not to say goodbye. 

He knew, logically, he shouldn't. John had no significant memory of him and would therefore not benefit from a goodbye at all, and it would be unwise to make an even more memorable impression upon him before leaving for good. 

Logically, of course.

In reality, it came down to the age old scenario. Head vs. heart, isn't it? Of course it is. Always, always, the final battle is _always_ head vs. heart, always between two of the most significant and contradictory traits of humanity: sentiment and logic.

But Sherlock knew he need not fight this battle. He had no enemy. Logic wins by default because there is no head vs. heart without heart.

He had been wrong, though. Before. 

A long time ago.

Before the fall, before everything, he had had a heart.

And he knew it. Somehow, he had always known, subtly, underneath the clutter and bustle of his mind...it was there. He knew it and he was ashamed of it and he liked to pretend that it wasn't true.

And how good at pretending he was. The stage lost a fine actor, even as science lost an acute reasoner, when Sherlock Holmes became a specialist in crime. He convinced himself it was true, convinced himself so well that it _became_ true. The mask he wore was not just ostensible. It was a part of who he was.

But he never felt his heart, never _really_ felt it, until it was on flames, until it was burning with black acrid smoke that weighed him down and polluted his mind. He did not feel his heart until Moriarty did it for him, proved to him that he _everyone has their pressure points_ and so does Sherlock. That was Sherlock's defeat, that was what Moriarty had wanted to do all along and that's what he accomplished. 

Proving to Sherlock what he had always been afraid of: _that he is only human_.

But it didn't particularly matter much anymore. 

Nothing really did, he supposed. Everything that had happened, since that day...it was like some sort of strange fever dream. It was the past now. Done. Over. Fading from memory day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute.

How fragile memory is. How utterly fragile.

What heart he ever had had been lost...everything had been lost.

Well, not everything. It was just John that was gone. Sherlock could still go on. He could still live at 221b and solve cases and use nicotine patches and do experiments. 

He would just be alone. But it would be fine, it would be just like before he met John.

But not really. Nothing would ever be the same. Never.

He would not say goodbye, then. That was fine, of course, he did not want any farewells. His departure would be clean and swift and effortless, just like everything he did, and goodbyes would only prolong it. 

It was entirely unnecessary.

He had already said goodbye three years ago, anyway. Up on the rooftop, stepping on the ledge ever so cautiously, so careful not to lose his balance. Even at the end, there was a part of him that did not want to die. A part of him that was scared.

But he knew he wouldn't die, not if he did this right. He knew this, and it nearly killed him that John didn't, that John _couldn't_ know.

And falling...Moriarty was right, it was like flying. And he had been afraid, _just for one second he had been afraid_ , that he would hit the ground. But he didn't. He had had a plan and, unsurprisingly, it worked. 

He wished, though, that he could have had that last conversation with John face-to-face. It would have been nice to be close to him one last time. To see his face and sense his warmth and to simply feel his presence. To know that he was not alone.

But he knew it wouldn't be enough. He would have always wished for more. More time, more truth, more...more life, he supposed.

He did die that day. Some part of him, something important inside of him died the day he fell, and the rest of him died the day John uttered the words, "Who are you?"

He was just a husk now. An empty shell. And everything was dark inside...except for his mind, which shone as brightly as ever among the dimness of ordinary people. 

But it wasn't enough. It never had been.

His key still worked. Mrs. Hudson had rented out 221b to other tenants, obviously, from the state of the doorknob, but had never changed the lock. 

He wondered whether she had hoped. 

He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. Whoever those tenants had been, they were long gone. The room was bare and harsh and unfamiliar. Dust floated through the rays of sunlight that spilled from the window and outlined the darkness. The windows hadn't been washed and he could see Baker Street, distorted by grime, through the dirty glass. 

This was not his home. It had been, once.

The wallpaper had not been changed. This felt important to him. He looked up and saw the yellow, bullet-pocked face smiling at him, and he couldn't decide whether he felt like smiling back or shooting it.

Like meeting an old friend, he thought fleetingly.

And he walked up to the wall slowly and traced the fleur-de-lis pattern and he said goodbye. 

It wasn't enough, though. It never would be.

Trafalgar Square and St. Bart’s and Montague Street and Charing Cross and Scotland Yard and Covent Garden and every place he had ever been and every case he had ever worked on here in _London, his home_ , the only home he had ever had…

And he had to leave it. Three years ago, he had to leave it, every street of it that he had memorized like the pale lines of his palm, and now he had come back to London just to leave it again.

He closed his eyes. He should not have come here. It was a waste of time and energy, and all because of a little sentiment.

It hurt, too. Goodbyes.

And the goodbye three years ago had hurt him enough for a lifetime. He wouldn't-- _he couldn't_ \--do it again. He knew this with an unfathomable intensity and he refused to penetrate the thought any further. He knew it and only it and not the reasons why and he did not want to know why because then that would find proof that he is human and he certainly did not want to entertain that notion.

He opened his eyes and closed his sight to the room. He did not want to see it anymore. He was busy and he had to leave in order to catch the flight Mycroft arranged for Berlin and that was all he needed right now.  
It would be alright, he thought. Germany is nice. Plenty of crime in Germany. Plenty of opportunities to brush up on the language, not that he needed brushing up. 

He would, of course, be alone again. But it would be alright. _He_ would be alright.

Sherlock brushed the dust off his coat and left his home again; this time without any intention of returning. And he pretended that he would be alright, pretended so well that he almost believed it. 

Almost.

The door slammed behind him and shuddered from age. He did not look back.


	10. The Best Laid Schemes of Mice and Men

If the best laid schemes of mice and men go often awry, then perhaps they are not quite as well-laid as one may assume them to be.

In fact, if the best-laid plans of mice and men culminate in suicide by gunshot, then one may reach the conclusion that perhaps the badly-laid schemes of mice and men aren't all that great, either.

Of course, one should also take into account that that had not actually been part of the plan originally. At least, he didn't think it ever was. It must have been an afterthought, he had concluded. A sort of insurance. A last resort, a fleeting "better-bring-it-just-in-case" thought. Because leave it to Jim Moriarty to consider suicide a reasonable backup plan.

What if Jim hadn't brought the gun with him? Would he have jumped instead? Grabbed Sherlock's shoulders and sailed off the side with him, like the two lovers of a Shakespearean tragedy?

No. He wouldn't. He had wanted Sherlock to kill himself. He had wanted it more than anything in the world. Well…almost anything.

What if one thing, one tiny, minute, seemingly insignificant detail had been different? What would have happened? What would be different now?

There was never a chance. He knew this. Sebastian never could have stopped Jim from doing it and he was fully aware of this. He wasn't stupid. He was the second-most dangerous man in London.

And now he's the first.

No matter what happened on that rooftop, the end result would always have been the same. Jim Moriarty would do what he wanted to do, and what he wanted to do was destroy Sherlock Holmes. And Sebastian Moran knew, probably long before Moriarty ever did, that the only way to do that was to destroy himself.

What he had always wondered about the most, however, was exactly what Sherlock Holmes had said to him. What it had taken to push him to the point of no return. What combination of 26 measly letters managed to make the  _spider_ , the king of the criminal world, decide to blow his priceless brains out with a handgun and die with a smile on his face.

And to do this knowing exactly who is watching it all through the scope of a rifle.

_He was such a bastard. Really. A genuine, one hundred percent, all the way to the bone, utter bastard._

Sebastian hated him.

He hated him and he hated what he had done and he hated himself because no matter what happens, he could never bring himself to  _really_ despise Jim Moriarty. He never could and never would, and he knew this for a fact, knew this with a bitter, pessimistic confidence that stuck in his mouth like a bad aftertaste. And even though he liked to  _believe_ that he gave Jim the unmitigated hatred he so thoroughly deserves, Sebastian knew, deep in the recesses of his psyche, that if there ever was any hate inside of him for Jim, something else had long replaced it.

Insanity, most likely.

People who get close to Jim Moriarty generally do end up in that direction, if not death. The latter, of course, is much more frequent, if not all-encompassing.

Except for Sebastian, of course. But Sebastian is not really a person, not according to Jim. It had been a compliment, a strange sort of compliment.

He had hated people. Moriarty. And to consider Sebastian apart from them, a separate entity from the vacuous, thoughtless creatures that inhabit this godforsaken planet...it had been the ultimate compliment.

And why wouldn't he have said that? Moriarty doesn't play with the ordinary people. He especially doesn't hire them.

Sebastian was his. His sniper, his soldier, his right hand man. He wasn't ordinary and he knew this. Oh, he knew how pompous and narcissistic it was to think this way, but it was undeniably true. He was one of the top snipers in the entirety of the British Armed Forces and a decorated soldier and blah blah this and blah blah that.

He had enjoyed. He wouldn't lie. It had felt good, getting medals pinned to his chest, being a leader, being stared at reverently by naive cadets. It felt really good. Every high ranking officer knowing your name and the distance you can shoot, not in that order, of course. Priorities.

Being respected. Yes, that was what had been nice. Very nice.

But it had not been enough. He had wanted something more, something he had not been able to understand at the time, but definitely did now.

It had been the dishonorable discharge that changed a lot of things.

He did not much like to lament about it. It had been a regrettable consequence occurring due to regrettable things he had done, and there had been nothing he could do to redeem himself. What he had done had been done and that's it.

Oh, everyone had been heartbroken. They did not really care about him, of course. They did not care about what he had done or what he deserves  _because_  of what he had done. All they saw, inside their heads, was the distance and accuracy with which he could shoot. Meaningless numbers and  _what a damn shame that the army'd be losing its best sniper_.

He hated them. He hated those people, all hypocrites with their dull thoughts and dull lives and dull priorities.

What are human beings, he had always wondered, other than aimless, ignorant, simple animals crawling across the face of this Earth in search of meaning that isn't there? And how unfortunate, how utterly unfortunate, is it, that he had been condemned to be one of them.

And Jim Moriarty...he understood this. He understood better than anyone ever had, understood this better than Sebastian ever had or ever could. And sometimes he had thought and he had wondered if perhaps Sherlock Holmes had been right all along.

Jim Moriarty is not a man at all. No...he is  _better than men_.

An odious, loathsome little tick, but better than men nonetheless. And Sebastian couldn't deny it. He had been proud to call James Moriarty his boss.

And when the spider died, he had left behind a web that needs tending to. The second most dangerous man in London had been doing the best he could, and his best was indeed quite good.

Three years and Sherlock Holmes still hadn't managed to arrest him. Not too shabby, he had thought. But, of course, he had to look at it from the opposite point of view, as well.

Ah, the best laid schemes of mice and men. Because for three years he had not been able to put a well-deserved bullet in Sherlock Holmes' head. For three years he had waited, alone.

But not anymore.

He fingered a pack of Marlboros in his pocket. Later, he decided. His smoking habit had waned. Jim had never liked it. Almost got him to quit. Almost.

People stared, every now and then. Not stares of reverence, not anymore. Sebastian understood. His facial scars were eye catching, if not in an especially good way.

The night grew darker and the air colder in Hyde Park. The number of people decreased, a steady stream turning into a trickle, and finally into utter desertion. True solitude.

He sat on a bench, lighting a cigarette. The smoke rose in opaque swirls. It was a cold day. A cold, dreary, foggy day, and the lit tip of the cigarette was the brightest thing in the park.

He glanced up and saw, looming in the fog, walking towards him, her dim silhouette.

His source and Sherlock's traitor.

"You're late," he remarked.

She said nothing and handed him the papers.

He glanced at them. Soft snowflakes began to float in the air and landed soundlessly on the duo. They did not speak to each other. They barely looked at each other. They were a duo in only a technical sense, working together to a common goal, but they both knew that they had their own desires. Their desires were separate and independent and their decisions were separate and independent and they were separate and independent but in a way, they were still one.

The traitor sat on the bench next to him. Snow landed on the papers and Sebastian flicked it off with his trigger finger.

The traitor watched and smiled. She knew things he didn't, and this always made her feel good.

Sebastian put the papers down. "If these are true—"

"They are," she interrupted casually.

" _If these are true_ ," he said, gritting his teeth slightly, "then he should be on his way to Berlin International Airport as we speak. Correct?"

"Of course."

He glanced at her face and saw nothing. Unreadable.

The traitor. No, that wasn't the right name for her.

"That is all, then?" She stood up and glanced around briskly, as though she would much rather be anywhere but here. "Anything else?"

He blew smoke at a snowflake in midair. "No." It melted instantly. "You still won't tell me your sources?"

She smiled. "Naturally not."

"And I am still supposed to blindly trust you." It was not a question. It was an accusation, a tacit one.

The traitor laughed. "You could always take your chances with someone else. That is, if there  _is_ anyone else who knows what I know about Sherlock Holmes."

Sebastian reached the butt of his cigarette and tasted filter. He put it out on his shoe and stood up, brushing snow off his coat. He looked down at the traitor. She looked up, the most imperceptible of smiles on her face. A smile that hid something.

"Sorry about dinner," she remarked, and walked away.

And Sebastian simply stood and watched as his source and Sherlock's traitor disappeared into the fog and snow, red lips probably stretched into a cheeky grin, heels probably clicking.

That was not the right name for her. No, that was a perversion of her true title, a title that tacitly implicated much more than it seemed, appropriate for an enigma such as herself. She was not "the traitor".

He clenched the papers tightly in his hand and thought of the number of people who have ever beaten Sherlock Holmes.

Only one came to mind.

 _The Woman_.


	11. Self-Control

            The edges of the mop were beginning to turn from dirty gray to dark red.

            There really hadn’t been that much blood on the floor. Most of it had been on the sheets; a severe, dominating red that had made what the custodian thought looked like pretty little patterns on the pristine white of the blankets. Drips and drops and smudges and streaks, here and there, imprints of every movement, every motion, every act committed inside that prison of a bed. It looked like a morbid, inadvertent, work of art, or to the cleverest of people, a very revealing puzzle.

            Mycroft stood outside the doorway. He was wary of the custodian’s mop swishing back and forth across the floor, and he stiffly stayed clear of it. The custodian paused to pick up another glass shard off of the floor, the sharp edge of it smeared with blood, and he hummed as he dropped it nonchalantly into a bucket before resuming the mopping.

            The tune sounded familiar, but also detached. A song that did not fit the situation, a song that felt as though it was a relic of another world.

            A clinking noise. Another shard into the bucket.

            Mycroft stared at the bloodied sheets and sighed. It was not a difficult puzzle. Bloodstains were much too simple.

            A laugh interrupted his thoughts.

            He turned and saw the custodian grinning oddly, the custodian with the goofy smile and the bloody hands and the humming songs, he had leaned his mop against the wall and laughed at Mycroft but did not look at him.

            “Poor bastard.” The custodian cracked his knuckles. “D’you know that after they patched him up again, they moved him to the psyche ward?”

            Mycroft did not respond, but the look on his face seemed to convey attention.

            “Bloke must’ve been on too many meds or somethin’.” He sighed and began mopping again, the shards of glass making clinking noises as the mop swished across the floor. “Why else would he have done that to himself?”

            Mycroft did not need to ask what.

            He stepped out of the room and walked down the hall, checking his watch. He sighed. His little sympathy visit to St. Bart's would cause him to be late to a meeting involving important people wearing expensive suits and expensive cuff links and leading countries with _very_ expensive debts.  
  
            He had no time in his life for sympathy. That's why he had cut it out. Destroyed it. Abolished it. Not only in himself, but in his brother.

            Sentiment was such an _annoying_ , vile little thing, a _sneaky_ thing, always worming itself into everything, into every aspect and moment of your life, every decision and thought you have. It was like a spilled liquid, spreading itself out everywhere and soaking in to the fabric of your life, your nature, into who you are as a person. It will make you slip. Slip and _fall_ , fall the way Sherlock Holmes did. His big mistake.  
  
            And the only way was to destroy sentiment altogether. And Mycroft had, already. One little sympathy visit was nothing, meant absolutely nothing.  
  
            And it was for Sherlock anyway, so why not.  
  
            Only Sherlock's gone now. Left for Germany. _Never coming back_. Mycroft almost laughed out loud.  
  
            Oh, he'll come back. He'll come back because he'll want to and because self-control was never really his forte.   
  
            Well, either that or he'll die.  
  
            Depends on what happens first. If it's the latter, then at least there had been finality to Mycroft's goodbye, just has he had intended.  
  
            He stepped into the lift and pressed the close button quickly.   
  
            He felt the intensity of the solitude acutely, in the silence, in the hum of the lift going down, in his own closed eyes. And in a minute the doors would slide open and he would have to see again, and walk out again, back straight, with a freezing look fit for someone cold enough to be called the Iceman again.  
  
            But for now, he could do nothing. Close his eyes and pretend that there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.  
  
            Ah, but he couldn't. He just couldn't, no matter how hard he'd try. He could imagine anything but nothing because nothing is an incomprehensible idea to him. He would never be able to slow his thoughts down to that point. They raced on and on and on at high speed, in desperate search of something to target, something to focus on, to figure out or solve or dissect, to occupy itself on. An unspoken similarity between the two genius brothers, only one thing was different for Mycroft.  
  
            He had self-control.  
              
            The lift doors opened. He stepped out, one impeccably shined Givenchy shoe after the other.   
  
            East wind, psychiatric ward. Floor thirteen.  
  
            Mycroft hesitated for one, short, imperceptible second, before moving on.  
  
            This time there was a bathroom in John's room. He still had the bedpan, just in case, but if he used his crutches, he could stand up and walk there. Slowly and awkwardly, using his one free arm, but at least he could walk. That was something.    
  
            There was a mirror in the bathroom, but it was covered with a clear plastic casing. It had a large crack in the middle of it where someone had tried to break it once. John put his finger on it and pushed. The crack grew wider and he stopped.  
  
            There were coverings on everything in the psyche ward. Rubber coverings on the sharp corners of furniture and plastic coverings on the windows and on the TV screen.  
  
            And they had started giving John styrofoam water cups instead of glass.  
  
            "Who was the nurse on duty that night?" he had heard doctors whispering furiously. "Who was the doctor on duty that night?" the nurses demanded. "Whoever it was, they must have mixed up the painkillers for their patient!"  
  
            Perhaps they had. He didn't know. The medical words sounded so familiar now, it was maddening. They took hazy shape in his head, in the form of objects or feelings or ideas, but he could never make them out.   
  
            He had been a doctor, though. A doctor and a soldier. He could remember that. And it was comforting, too, because now he knew that he wasn't a nobody. He wasn't a loser. He had accomplished things. He was more than just a sad broken man all alone in the hospital. He had been someone, and he still is.  
              
            But who was Sherlock Holmes?  
  
            He couldn't fathom this part of his life. He knew Sherlock Holmes had been his friend. But where did he fit in? Colleague, lover, acquaintance, drinking buddy, who was he _really_?  
  
            There was something about Sherlock Holmes that scared and intrigued John. He felt as though Sherlock was the key. That if he could understand Sherlock, then he could finally understand himself.   
  
            But something bad had happened. He could feel it. The fear, the sadness, the anger...something bad had happened, a long time ago, that had to do with Sherlock Holmes. And that was what scared John: finding out what. 

            He looked at his reflection in the mirror. It was just a mix of colors, blurred by the dirty plastic casing. White skin and blue eyes, rimmed with red above purple shadows. A grotesque painting of a broken man, staring back at him, trying to tell him something that he can’t hear above the din of his own mind.

            He touched the crack in the plastic again, and pushed harder this time. A piece of it snapped off. He blinked. He could see part of his reflection clearly.

            Mycroft opened the room door.

            John dropped the shard of plastic, and turned around, listening.

            Soft footsteps, fading as Mycroft walks past the bathroom, then silence as he stops, observing the room around him.

            John put the shard in his pocket and opened the bathroom door.

            “Hello.” Mycroft greeted him without looking. He stood at the window.

            “Er…” John sighed. “I…probably know you, don’t I?” He coughed, and stared at the man at the window for a second, noticing his expensive suit. “Um, sorry, I don’t really remember who you are.”

            Mycroft turned around and John was suddenly hit by a wave of negative emotions as he looked at the man’s face.

            _I definitely know who you are. Somewhere, I know._

             “I’m an acquaintance of yours. No need to know anything else. Not right now.” He stared at John with narrowed eyes. “How much,” he spoke slowly, allowing large gaps between his words, “do you remember about your life, Mr. Watson?”

            John swallowed nervously. He opened his mouth and closed it again, before tearing his gaze away from Mycroft’s cold one.

            “Because forgive me if I am wrong,” Mycroft enunciated sharply, “but it appears that you seem to know much more than you’re letting on. Especially,” he smirked, “after the events of last night?”

            John looked at him open-mouthed. “Who-“

            “You need to stop this, John _,”_ Mycroft snapped. “I’m assuming you have not remembered enough of your past to know what effects your actions may have on Sherlock Holmes, but I am telling you now to _stop_.”

            _Sherlock Holmes. Who are you, Sherlock Holmes?_

            “No,” John shook his head. “No, you don’t understand. I can remember—“ His voice cracked and he took a deep breath. “ _I can remember now_. Not everything, but much more than before. And it was all because—“

            “ _Because you hurt yourself_.” Mycroft stepped closer. “But let me tell you this, John, you are hurting much more than just yourself by doing this.”

            “What…” He shifted his crutch. “What do you mean? Who are you…talking about…” His voice trailed off and he closed his eyes. _You mean Sherlock Holmes, don’t you?_

             “I will be keeping you on surveillance, John,” Mycroft said, checking his watch. He looked up at and smiled at John, succeeding only in making his aura colder. “And know that I’m not the only one who is.”

            John felt a chill go down his spine. He seemed incapable of speaking.

            Mycroft walked to the door and stopped. “Oh, I very nearly forgot something.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out, handing it to John. “He wants you to have this.”

            John took it and looked at Mycroft. “Sherlock Holmes?”

            Mycroft nodded and turned around, opening the door.

            “Goodbye, John.”

            Something about those two words made John’s stomach churn as Mycroft left the room and took all the ice and cold with him.          

            He suddenly seemed to remember that there was an item in his hand, and he looked at it in confusion. It was nothing but a raggedy blue scarf.

            He looked at it closer and realized something that made him feel sick inside.

            The scarf was stained with blood.

 

           

           

           

           

            


End file.
